


Give and Take

by mnemosyne23



Series: Dombilie - Secrets and Spies 'Verse [2]
Category: Lost RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Dark, F/M, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Sexual Assault, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-14
Updated: 2005-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1199931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne23/pseuds/mnemosyne23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spy!Domilie fic, set before Teffy's <a href="http://teffy.livejournal.com/253988.html">Secrets and Spies</a>. We delve into Emilie's past and learn a little more about what makes her tick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give and Take

**Author's Note:**

> This story deals with elements of sexual assault. Please don't read this if that will make you uncomfortable.

 

_"(Emilie) broke down on his shoulder once, and only once…_  
 _But (Dom) doesn't remember why she was crying. He doesn't think she ever told him."_

_~"[The More Things Change](../1199955)"~_

 

 

 

Emilie remembers the first with crystal clarity, like mirrors in the snow. He was tall and stocky and at least ten years her senior, but even that only put him somewhere in his twenties. She remembers his hands were hot and moist and made her feel clammy, even as she choked on his cologne. This was before she knew how to bargain -- when all she knew was bribery.

"I want the name," she remembers saying as he unbuttoned her blouse. "Give me the name."

"A deal's a deal," he'd grunted, pushing her shirt open and letting out a low whistle. "Nice."

She remembers thinking things weren't supposed to go like this; she was supposed to handle herself better than this. What good was it, growing up with her family, if she didn't even know how to handle a panty-sniffing two-bit information peddler? She'd hit seventeen and left home to make a name for herself in the world; that had been the plan at least. The road had looked so open as she'd pulled out of the driveway in her custom Bentley, ready to take on all comers and make them grovel. It had never occurred to her that to reach the top, you have to claw your way up from the bottom.

She remembers the way he seemed to hover over her like a vulture; all keen interest and hunger. "I _said_ , I want the name," she can hear herself saying, and even in memory she can hear the way her voice shakes like a poorly built bridge that couldn't support even the weakest argument.

"After," he'd muttered, and she shudders every time she remembers his thick fingers against her hip.

"NOW," she'd pressed, and it makes her future self sick to think how weak she'd been. The older Emilie -- the wiser Emilie -- would have thrown him off, dug a foot into his throat and made him spill his secrets. Older Emilie understood that in the underground, no one gives when it's just as easy to take, and a lot more fun at that.

"After."

"Now!"

"Why? Where are you going to go?"

"I'll scream!"

"No one cares."

And she'd known he was right.

So she bit her lip and closed her eyes and turned her head to the side so she wouldn't have to watch his face. The whole time she tried to pretend it wasn't real; it was just one of her dreams again, and any second now a soft pair of lips was going to touch her temple and a warm Scottish brogue would breathe in her ear _Ye grew up, Emmy… Oh, ye grew up, my lass…_

Any second now.

Any second.

_oh god please…_

When it was over, he left her. That was no surprise; she hadn't expected him to stay. She remembers feeling stretched and dirty, the touch of his moist, grimy fingers lingering on her skin like grease. Showering hadn't done any good; no amount of scrubbing could remove the memory of those hands.

It wasn't until after she'd rubbed her skin raw and gone through half a bottle of shampoo that she realized he hadn't even given her the name.

She used the rest of the shampoo, bleached her hair with peroxide, and slept on the couch that night. The next day she packed her bags and moved to New Zealand. Looking back on it, she finds it ironic that she can remember his fingers so completely -- the long nail on his left thumb, the callous on his right pinkie -- but she can't remember who she was looking for. She can't even remember why.

 

 

\---------------------

 

It never occurred to her to cry. It wasn't like she'd been raped; she'd used herself as a bargaining tool and she'd been swindled. That was all. Live and learn. _Grow up, Emmy_ : that had been her attitude. _Grow up and get over it._ On those nights when she found herself waking up, shaking and desperate, she forced her mind to focus on the goals she'd laid out before leaving home. There was no room for weakness if she was going to become the person she wanted to be; no margin for error. If her mind kept returning to the same place every night, she was just going to have to teach it to sojourn somewhere else.

Those were the nights she stared out the window and wondered what the Scotsman was doing now. She'd have been a fool to admit he wasn't the driving force behind most of her actions; he'd given her a taste of the life she craved so desperately, but he'd left before she could take her fill. Though she didn't think the Scotsman was the kind to let anyone take from him; it was one of the things she admired most about him; he was the one to do the taking, never vice versa.

 _He'd think you were just a stupid, sappy girl if he saw you now,_ she'd tell herself over and over again, staring out her window at the Wellington skyline, ignoring the tears she couldn't stop. _He'd laugh at you and tell you how glad he is he didn’t saddle himself with such a silly, soppy girl._ It was meant to toughen her up, and eventually it did. Eventually. When it stopped hurting so badly.

One day she stopped thinking of the Scotsman, because she was tired of watching him laugh at her in her head. She didn't like the cruel, snarling curl she gave to his lips, or the way the nail on his left thumb seemed longer than the rest. Tucking him away into a protected corner of her head, she focused her energies on beating the tears out of her eyes.

Taking. That was what this was about. Taking. She'd let that bastard take from her; well, time to do some taking of her own. Time to show the rest of the world who was boss. Time to get herself off in a sauna and not give a shit who was watching.

That night she wore her tightest skirt and smallest shirt and fucked two men and a woman, and this time she was the one who left them behind.

It felt amazing; liberating; a power she hadn't ever felt before. She'd _used_ people, and they hadn't even fought back. They'd practically begged her for it! Was that how it was? All she had to do was swagger and act like she owned them, and they virtually fell at her feet; human dominos. Much as she'd enjoyed it, though, she found what she _really_ loved was the looks; all the stares of those poor souls who would never, _ever_ get to touch her. Taking someone's body only meant so much, but taking their breath away and stomping on their throats to make sure it stayed gone was eternal.

 

\---------------------------------

 

Dominic scared her.

She found him sitting on a couch by himself in the corner of a noisy club; prime fodder for her next meal. But there was something about his eyes that had given her pause. Normally she ignored the eyes of her prey; once she had them in her bed, she didn't care how they looked at her so long as she came first. She'd made a fatal error, though, looking into Dom's eyes, because she hadn't seen the usual blind admiration there. Instead she found a kind of hopeless inner necessity that begged _Please take me home? Please don’t leave me alone…_

Against her better judgment, she'd done just that; and now he wouldn't leave.

She didn't want him to leave; that was what scared her. That first night together she'd done what she always did -- established her dominance, marked him as her own -- but it didn't work. He wouldn't let her take him; he _gave_ himself to her.

The asshole _gave_ himself!

 _"How long's it been since you've actually_ felt _something with someone? How long has it been since someone's given you_ exactly _what you wanted?_ Done _exactly what you wanted?"_

People did what she wanted all the time, but always because she told them to. Never because they KNEW.

At night she found herself sitting up more often than not, curled under a blanket in the armchair by her window, watching him sleep. He slept so deeply, as if he'd never been hurt. Sleep to her meant vulnerability; she'd trained herself to go without it. What sleep she did allow herself was usually little more than a light doze, easily broken. But with Dom, she found herself sleeping deeper, sometimes even without dreaming. Sometimes she slept through the night, only waking when morning came to touch her eyelids and she could feel Dom nuzzling her hair as his hips pressed against her from behind.

Sometimes she found herself hating him.

What right did he have to waltz into her life and change everything? What right did he have to make her give a damn about him? That wasn't part of her plan. _People_ weren't part of her plan, except as cogs in the wheel to her ultimate success. She was going to be the best criminal in the South Pacific; fuck that, in the WORLD. They were going to breathe her name in quiet corners in Istanbul and crowded bars in Tokyo.

The Scotsman was going to hear her name and tremble.

But when she looked at Dom, she forgot all about that. Looking at Dom made her think that all she really wanted to do was _keep_ looking at him, and everything else could go hang. He had an endearing way of saying nonsense phrases in his sleep -- _"Radishes on bicycles, don't you know, Margaret?"_ \-- and occasionally she'd find herself trying to interpret what he could be dreaming. She was certain they were happier dreams than her own.

She was certain he didn’t dream about greasy handprints on his thighs.

 

 

\--------------------------------

 

The night Emilie killed her First was clear and bright, though it should have been raining to lend the right atmosphere. She faked a trip to Sydney, telling Dom she needed to meet with a former associate, and found herself wandering the slums at a little after midnight. Nobody touched her, though as always, she could feel the stares following her from dark doorways and shadowy alcoves. Let them stare -- she was prepared this time. If so much as one finger brushed her, the owner of that hand would find themselves the proud possessor of a mouthful of lead.

She found him at the same bar where she'd found him years before, sitting in almost the same corner booth. He'd gotten older and paunchier, looking closer to his forties than a man in his early thirties. There were a few other customers scattered around the smoky joint, just as there will always be fleas, even on a dying dog. They all watched her as she walked through the room, and she drank in their stares like water on her parched tongue. Every man in this room wanted her, and not one of them would get to have her. She felt a thrill of power she hadn't felt since falling in with Dominic.

She stopped in front of her First's table and he stared at her. "Hello?"

Emilie smiled sweetly, though her stomach convulsed with revulsion. His hands hadn't changed; she could see them as they clutched his beer atop the table. "Hello," she echoed back, minus the interrogative. "May I sit?"

It was almost comical, how quickly he nodded, the way he shifted aside to make room for her on the poorly padded bench. She slid in daintily, careful to cross her smooth legs in the most provocative way imaginable. She'd long ago thrown away the outfit she'd worn that night, but she'd done her best to recreate it: tiny white blouse and a pink flowered skirt. They made her look so innocent, she almost believed it herself. "Aren't you going to ask me what a nice girl like me is doing in a place like this?" she asked, combing her fingers through her hair so that it draped down her back in a silky curtain.

"I was going to buy you a drink, actually."

"Yeah? Aren't you sweet. I suppose it's only natural between old friends." The last word burned her tongue but she didn’t even flinch.

He gave her a curious smile. "Old friends, eh?"

Emilie grinned, smoothing her hands down her body. "Oh yes."

His smile widened. "Nice."

She shuddered inwardly but kept her smile plastered on. "Don't tell me you've forgotten," she chided, fingers tugging idly at her stocking. "I know I haven't."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Tell me your name," he said with a lecherous smile.

Emilie leaned forward, rosebud lips pursed in a smile. "Emmy Engel," she purred.

He tilted his head. "Who?"

It was like a wall of ice sprang up between them. Emilie felt her smile drop away. "Doesn't ring any bells?" she snarled quietly. "Try this one on for size. The woman who kills you."

His eyes widened, but it really didn't do much good. She had the gun out of her garter by then, pointed at his head. "No… Hey, come on! What!"

"You don't remember me, huh?" Emilie growled, standing up, gun unwavering. "Don't remember me? I haven't forgotten you, you son of a bitch, and you don't even have the decency to _remember_ me?" She cocked the gun and pressed it against his forehead. "Fuck you."

"No! Come on! We can work this out! Somebody help me!"

Emilie smiled slowly, a wicked curl of her lips. "Don't bother screaming," she told him. "No one cares."

And she pulled the trigger.

 

 

\-------------------------

 

She changed clothes in an alley, washing her hands with a bottle of water she'd stolen from behind the bar. By the time she got to the airport, she looked no different than anyone else; certainly not like someone who had killed her adolescent nightmare in a seedy bar on the bad side of town. The bartender had barely flinched as she'd walked out of his establishment; she got the feeling he was used to things like this. He probably thought she was part of some organized crime family; strange that he should be so close to the truth, but utterly wrong at the same time.

They could search for Emmy Engel all they wanted, if they bothered to search at all. Bodies had a way of disappearing in the slums, and Emmy Engel had vanished at seventeen. Emilie de Ravin, on the other hand, was still being born.

The flight back to Wellington was oddly emotionless. Emilie read the in-flight magazine and filed her nails. After landing, she flagged a taxi and had it drop her off two blocks from the house she shared with Dom, electing to walk the rest of the way. The night air felt cool and refreshing against her hot face as she ambled up the twisting driveway towards the elegant white manse she called home. Actually, she'd only recently begun thinking of it as home -- she suspected that was Dom's fault. He had a way of making her want to stay in one place for a while.

Climbing the stairs, she found him sitting on their bed, headphones on, listening to music while watching TV, a comic book open on his stomach. The image made her smile, and she leaned in the doorway for a minute, just watching him before making her presence known.

He caught her before she was ready, his eyes flicking away from the TV and spying her in the door. A broad grin spread across his face. "You're back fast, luv," he said, tugging the headphones away from his ears. Emilie just had time to hear a blast of something loud and electric before he switched off the player and the TV. Sitting up straight, he let the comic book fall to the floor as he patted the bed beside him. "I wasn’t expecting you back till tomorrow afternoon."

Emilie smiled, sidling into the bedroom and clambering onto the bed. "I missed you," she told him, crawling across the comforter to kiss him before curling up against his side, head on his shoulder.

His arms wrapped around her. "Missed you, too," he said with a smile, kissing her forehead. "This place is awfully big and empty for one person. Makes me wonder how you lived her all alone for so long."

"I was never really alone that often," she teased, tickling him. "I always had company."

"Don't talk about it," he warned, playfully batting her hands away. "You know I hate talking about your past conquests."

Emilie grinned, snuggling up against him. Why should she spoil his image and tell him she hadn't been talking about people; she'd been talking about demons. "You're so sensitive," she cooed, brushing her fingers down his cheek.

"I just hate thinking of anyone else making you scream is all," he said with a playful glint in his eye.

_I'll scream!_

No one cares.

Emilie knew her face must have changed from the way Dom shifted beneath her. "Em?" he asked gently. "Luv, something wrong?"

She shook her head, looking up to find his concerned eyes watching her. "No," she murmured with a tentative smile. "I'm fine."

"I don't believe you."

"Just stop, Dominic," she said wearily, pressing her face into his neck. "It's over now, okay? It's done."

"What is, sweet?"

His hands were rubbing her back, and he was so damned _understanding_ , and so fucking _concerned_ , and he didn't even know that a few hours ago she'd been washing blood off her hands and scrubbing her thighs to try and erase those greasy handprints that never seemed to go away. Never EVER seemed to go away. Shouldn't they be gone now? She'd bathed herself in his blood, goddammit, she deserved a little _peace!_

"Em, luv, you're crying," Dom soothed, rocking her, and Emilie realized with shock that he was right. "Don't cry, luv. Don't cry, my Emmy…"

There's only so much lying a person can do to themselves before a wall falls down and the truth breaks through. In a blaze of blinding clarity, Emilie realized that Emmy Engel never disappeared. Emmy Engel never got off that bed in Sydney; she'd been living there for years, curled up in dirty sheets, staring at the wall and reliving her mistakes over and over and over again in vivid Technicolor. As long as she stayed on that bed, Emilie could lock her away, keep her secreted in a corner of her mind directly opposite from the Scotsman.

But now Emmy had decided to get off the bed.

"No," she whispered, pressing her face into Dom's throat and twining her arms around him. "No, please…"

"Emilie, it's all right, luv. I'm here."

Emmy was looking out the window, now. She was staring down at the street, and it was red as blood.

And it all came back to her, flooding her senses like water through a busted dam. The feel of greasy fingers mingled with the touch of hot, slick blood, and Emilie discovered she was sobbing against Dom's chest; crying like she hadn't done since childhood. Her fingers balled his shirt in her clutching fists, and her belly flexed with the power of her tears. Dom's arms tightened around her and she was sure he must be terrified from the way his voice shook when he said, "Emilie, don’t cry. Tell me what's wrong, my lovely. Tell me what's wrong. I'll fix it, I swear. I'll make it better. Please, luv, don't cry!"

He would, too. If he could, he'd mend all her broken pieces and fix all her shattered past. But how could she explain this? How could she tell him that it wasn't _fair_ ; she'd faced her fear and left it dead. So why was she still scared? Why did she know, without a doubt, that she'd dream about her First tonight? Only now while he fucked her he'd have no face, and he'd drip blood on her chest from a hole in his head the size of a golf ball.

It wasn't _fair_. He hadn't even remembered her, and now she couldn't get him out of her mind.

She screamed into Dom's shoulder, pounding her fists against his chest with superhuman rage. Dom didn't say a word, just took her blows and endured her howls and held her till she was shaking and weak and exhausted. He didn't ask her again to tell him why she was crying; he just held her and gave her his shoulder. Always so giving, her Dominic. And she took what he gave her, because that was all she knew how to do.

 

**THE END**


End file.
